


Contamination

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Biting, Blood, Bruises, Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, Knives, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Izaya laughs, and tips his head back to flutter his eyelashes, and says 'Is that all you’ve got for me, Shizu-chan?' and the cliff face of Shizuo’s self-control crumbles into dust." Izaya contaminates everything he touches, including Shizuo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contamination

Shizuo’s shirt is in tatters by the time they make it to the bedroom.

This is nothing new. It doesn’t matter how angry he gets with every loss of a uniform; his rage seems to do nothing at all to deter Izaya from coming at him with a knife, or teeth, or just fingers that fist and tear through fabric seemingly as frail as paper. If anything it spurs the other on, as it has today, until Shizuo is stained crimson with smeared blood and teeth-baringly furious, too high on his own adrenaline to control his strength. When he shoves Izaya back the force is enough to send him sprawling, slamming into the edge of the bed and sliding to the floor instead of landing across the mattress as Shizuo had intended. There’s a flicker of guilt, somewhere far back in the rationality that long ago lost its hold on Shizuo’s awareness, a moment of hesitation that might be enough to give him a toehold on sanity again.

Then Izaya laughs, and tips his head back to flutter his eyelashes, and says “Is that all you’ve got for me, Shizu-chan?” and the cliff face of Shizuo’s self-control crumbles into dust.

He doesn’t find words, when he reaches for them. It’s too much to try to filter the heat aching through his body into language when his hands can be just as expressive as words. He lunges forward, his hand slamming hard against Izaya’s shoulder to shove him back against the foot of the bed, but Izaya just keeps laughing, the sound catching a manic tone as Shizuo’s knee hits the floor alongside his hip.

“ _Quiet_ ,” he growls, the command more irritation than it is an order. Izaya’s shirt slips under his hold, drags over the other’s skin until Shizuo shifts his grip to dig his thumb in hard under the other’s collarbone. He’ll maintain his hold or snap the sharp line of the bone itself, like this, and he’s not sure right at this moment which he would prefer.

Izaya’s head drops sideways, his hair spilling dark as oil across his forehead and brushing Shizuo’s wrist. It feels like contamination, darkness and pollution turning Shizuo’s blood murky and catching his fire to dangerous height. “Make me,” he purrs, drawling the words over his lips, and he’s giggling again when Shizuo’s teeth hit his mouth.

It’s hardly a kiss as much as an impact; Shizuo tastes blood, uncertain if it’s his own from the gash Izaya sliced across his hairline earlier or from the other’s lips tearing under the force of his motion, and it doesn’t matter enough to pause. The slick taste of Izaya’s mouth is stronger like this, poison spreading over Shizuo’s tongue like the taste of his cigarettes, and he doesn’t need the fragile fingers curling against the back of his bloodstained collar to hold him in place. His heart is pounding, his blood surging hot with rage and arousal to urge each other on, and Izaya’s purring against his lips like the kiss is gentle, like he’s  _enjoying_  it, going pliant and warm under Shizuo’s touch as if he’s melting into submission.

Shizuo can taste the bitter on his tongue when he pulls back, gasping for air he can’t get enough of in overworked lungs. Izaya’s eyes are half-lidded, the dark color looking nearly black in the shadow of his lashes, but his smile persists, even though with an inch of distance Shizuo can see the blood seeping from his split lip to stain his skin like some sort of macabre makeup.

“This foreplay is fun and all,” he says, his words still irritatingly calm in spite of the flush Shizuo can feel under his fingers, the heat rising and radiating off Izaya’s skin until Shizuo can imagine his body going cancerous under the onslaught. “But when are you going to get to the  _good_  part?”

There’s movement in Shizuo’s periphery, the free hand he had forgotten about, and he doesn’t have time to dodge the glint of the knife clutched in Izaya’s bruised fingers. The edge slices through what’s left of his vest, drags a line of blood against his hip to catch against his slacks, and Shizuo can hear the fabric tearing with far more protest than his skin gave.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he growls, reaches out to seize Izaya’s wrist and twist it back sharply. It should be a careful maneuver, if he doesn’t want to shatter glass-delicate bones, but luckily he doesn’t care; he cares about the clatter of the metal on the floor, the yelp of pain even Izaya’s masochism can’t restrain, and it’s not until he swings his knee out to shove the blade well out of reach that he lets his hold go.

“Not going to make use of that yourself?” Izaya asks, eyes tracking the spinning motion of the weapon across the floor instead of Shizuo’s growling expression.

“I don’t need it,” Shizuo says, truth rather than boast, and Izaya laughs, tips his head back to stare at the blond with the shadowed threat of those eyes.

“I suppose tool use is a bit beyond you,” he lilts, and Shizuo bares his teeth and shoves closer, forcing Izaya back against the foot of the bed until he’s rendered as immobile and harmless as he ever is.

“I hate you,” he spits, ducking in as Izaya tilts his head sideways to bare the line of his throat.

“I know you do,” Izaya purrs, and Shizuo bites against the unmarked pale of his shoulder, tears past skin and blood that surrender too easily to the press of his teeth. Izaya jerks, makes a sound somewhere low in his chest, and Shizuo shifts his hand, presses the whole flat of his palm against the other’s neck to hold him in place. He can feel Izaya’s pulse against his fingers, the fluttering rush of excitement the other finds more thrilling than the burden adrenaline has always been for Shizuo. The thought burns through him, tightens in his jaw and digs into Izaya’s shoulder again, and with the shudder of pain comes a rush at Shizuo’s fingertips, adrenaline rising into Izaya’s pulse as Shizuo’s mouth fills with the bitter of his blood.

“You’re disgusting,” Shizuo says as he pulls away, tongue sour with salt and metallic ache and throat closing off at the idea of swallowing it. He spits instead, the color spraying against Izaya’s shirt and the side of his face, and while Izaya is still grimacing in distaste he’s reaching to wrap his fingers into a fist at the front of the other’s pants.

“Aren’t you protesting a bit too much?” Izaya asks as he drags the back of his unhurt hand across his face. It doesn’t help -- the blood just smears across his cheekbone and up into his hair -- but Shizuo doesn’t comment. “I mean, you  _are_  the one tearing my clothes off.” Shizuo wrenches his wrist, a button gives way, and Izaya laughs. “Literally.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps. Izaya’s jeans slide off hot skin, Shizuo’s fingers pressing hard enough to leave a path of bruises in their wake as he drags at the fabric. “Just  _shut up_ , Izaya-kun.”

“Language is failing you again,” Izaya observes. One arm comes up around Shizuo’s neck, his knees pressing against his chest so he can reach around them to catch at the zipper of Shizuo’s slacks. “You’re charming when you can’t manage basic communication.” Fingers twist into Shizuo’s hair, drag hard enough that it would be painful except for the unstoppable burn of anger under the other’s skin. As it is he barely feels the force, doesn’t react to it at all; Izaya’s fingers are dragging his fly open, pushing against the fabric to drag over his cock instead, and his voice might be level but his hand is shaking as badly as Shizuo’s over heartbeat. “My own personal pet.”

“ _Izaya-kun_ ,” Shizuo growls, as the fastest route to the threat and the insult he wants at once. Izaya’s touch vanishes, he’s bringing his hand to his mouth instead, and Shizuo knows what he’s doing but he doesn’t offer Izaya the benefit of patience. It’s easier to push in closer, to force Izaya’s knees up closer against his chest, and Izaya makes a whining note of protest but Shizuo doesn’t care, he’s close enough now for what he wants.

“Jesus, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, sounding only a little strained from the angle, and he’s reaching down to fumble spit-slick fingers into a hold around Shizuo’s cock. It makes Shizuo growl, a low rumble of want and satisfaction and threat all at once, and Izaya’s jerking up over him without a hint of his usual grace, like Shizuo’s desperation is as contagious as Izaya’s poison. The friction is a burn, an ache as much as satisfaction, but Shizuo barely has a moment to hiss at the motion before Izaya’s touch is falling away, damp fingers coming up to close against the back of his neck while Shizuo growls and shoves in closer. There’s hot skin against him, blistering against his fingertips and the back of his neck, and then he’s pushing against Izaya, force overriding any consideration of gentleness until the head of his cock slides into the other’s body. Izaya groans, his head tipping forward to hide his eyes behind his hair, and Shizuo keeps going, thrusting in deeper until he can feel each shudder of Izaya’s reaction tighten around him.

There’s no need for thinking, no words left in the barren space of Shizuo’s throat. He ducks his head instead, lips sliding across the blood-marked skin of Izaya’s shoulder, and when he thrusts again it’s in time with his teeth sinking another crescent of blood into Izaya’s skin. The liquid burns his mouth, spills over his teeth and against Izaya’s shirt, and Izaya’s shaking, rendered satisfyingly incoherent somewhere between the pain and the motion of Shizuo fucking into him. The hand at Shizuo’s neck tightens, fingernails scraping over skin, but Shizuo doesn’t try to pull away, doesn’t even flinch; it doesn’t hurt, where he’s at now, doesn’t elicit the shivering reaction each press of his teeth brings out of the other. It’s the possession that’s satisfying, the feel of Izaya pinned in between him and the bed without any resistance in him except for the involuntary shudders Shizuo is dragging from him, until the sound in Shizuo’s throat is more a purr than it is a growl. The bed is moving in time with them, Izaya’s shoulders shoving back against it with every motion of Shizuo’s hips, and Shizuo probably should be worried about the damage this will end up doing to the wall but he doesn’t care. His tongue is coated with metallic salt, the adrenaline in his veins is winding tight, tensing his fingers at Izaya’s shoulder and leaving him gasping for air against the wet of the other’s skin like his lungs have forgotten how to work.

Izaya’s trembling, forcing a hand down between his chest and pressed-up knees to drag over himself, but Shizuo doesn’t slow or reach down to help; Izaya can take care of himself, it’s not like Shizuo’s particularly concerned about the other’s satisfaction. It’s his own he’s chasing, now, pinning down the swirl of fire in his veins the same way he’s pinning Izaya against the bed, until his rhythm starts to fray more into instinctive speed than any kind of discernible intention. He’s not thinking, even if his thoughts have had any influence over his movements for the last several minutes; it’s just reflex, now, thrusting up into Izaya for the heat and the friction and the satisfaction, the hum in his ears and heartbeat under his fingers blurring against the gasp of air on Izaya’s lips into one tight-wound whole. He forgets that he’s angry, forgets that he hates Izaya, forgets all the complications of emotions and history and memory; it’s just want, simple and clean as the destruction that sometimes grips him, until when he groans and jerks into orgasm he doesn’t think about how hard he’s holding at Izaya’s shoulder. It doesn’t matter; for a few moments he’s free, detached from his responsibilities and his impulses and everything except the rippling pleasure washing him into a moment’s peace.

It is only for a moment. His hearing comes back, then, reminds him where he is and who he’s with, and then Izaya shudders and groans and Shizuo can feel him coming, can hear the pleasure low on the other’s exhale. It’s almost pleasant, to have someone shivering in pleasure against him, but that’s a reminder of  _who_  it is, the recollection as bitter as the blood at Shizuo’s lips, and he pulls away, shoves Izaya back and move over the floor to collapse against the far wall with a few feet of distance safely between them.

Izaya doesn’t protest the movement. He has his head back, eyes shut and throat vibrating with the sigh of satisfaction as he strokes himself through the last aftershocks of pleasure. His shirt is a mess, sticky at the stomach and bloody at the shoulder, and even from a distance Shizuo can see the fingerprint-bruises rising from where he pressed too hard into the other’s shoulder. He can’t decide if it’s more guilt or vicious satisfaction he gets from that, feels too drained of even his everpresent adrenaline to decide, and when Izaya tips his head back down and blinks his eyes open neither of them move for an attack immediately. Izaya just stares for a moment, eyes dark and shadowed; then he lets his hold on himself go, shifts his shoulder experimentally and cringes.

“I think you broke my collarbone, Shizu-chan.” he says, the words petulant and chiding. “Again.”

“It’s not  _broken_ ,” Shizuo declares, rolling his eyes without bothering to move from the wall.

“Cracked, at least.”

“Whatever.” Shizuo shuts his eyes. There’s a spark of irritation under his skin but it’s not catching fire; either he’s too tired or too satisfied for another surge of furious adrenaline. “It could have been worse.”

Izaya’s laugh is sharp. “True.” His leg comes out, his toes bump against the inside of Shizuo’s ankle. “I guess even you can be right sometimes, Shizu-chan.” Shizuo can feel the ache of friction at his skin, hyper-awareness of that point of contact lacing up his leg and clouding his thoughts with distraction, but he doesn’t pull away any more than he answers.

There’s no point in trying to avoid the contamination, at this point.


End file.
